


Pumpkin Spice And Everything Nice (And Accurate)

by apocalypsenah, TheNoctambulist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (more tags to come probably), But Only In The Sense That A Brian Selznick Novel Is Illustrated, Fluff, Halloween, Illustrated, M/M, Meaning The Illustrations Aren't Just What Is Happening In The Text, Shenanigans, They Tell Their Own Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalypsenah/pseuds/apocalypsenah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNoctambulist/pseuds/TheNoctambulist
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale decide to learn about celebrating Halloween with a bit of friendly competition. Hijinks, summoning shenanigans, and eventual soft fluff ensues! Created for GO-Events POV Pairs, with Crowley POV chapters by TheNoctambulist and Aziraphale POV illustrations by apocalypsenah.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	1. Something Spooky This Way Comes

**Author's Note:**

> This work was created for the Good Omens POV Pairs Event. Our prompt was something along the lines of "celebrating a human holiday or tradition" and we decided to go with Halloween ~~even if it is kind of irrelevant in Great Britain~~. 'Tis the spooky season! We've had a lot of fun working on this, and hope you have fun reading it! 🎃
> 
> It _should_ be updating weekly on Sundays! That's the plan, at least. So glad to finally share this with the world!! 🎃

  
  


* * *

It was a bright and sunny morning. Few clouds dotted the blue expanse of sky, and when brave ones dared emerge, they were chased away by the brisk breeze. It was just nippy enough that mothers everywhere were reminding their children to wear a jacket on their way to school (an order many of them would disregard). The weather was, overall, quite pleasant, at least according to the Channel 4 report.

The demon Crowley, however, disagreed.

“Right _nasty_ weather we’ve been having,” he complained over the puttering radio sitting atop a stack of books.

“I think it’s quite nice,” the angel Aziraphale said, reappearing from behind a bookshelf. He balanced a stack of books under his chin, a precarious act that he was somewhat succeeding (but mostly failing) at.

“‘S got no _character,"_ Crowley continued. He fiddled with a loose thread on the tartan couch he was reclined on. “I expect more, honestly.”

“Well, it can’t be damp and cloudy every day.” Aziraphale shifted the stack to one hand, and, shaking with effort, took the top book and reshelved it.

Crowley sat up, swinging his legs back to the floor. “Why not? Makes my job a heaven of a lot easier, I tell you. People tend to get pissed off _really easily_ when the weather’s dreary.”

“Crowley, you don’t have a job any more,” Aziraphale reminded him, taking two more books and placing them on a shelf. The pile in his arms was getting slightly more manageable. _Slightly._

“I know. Still, it’s dreadfully dull. I like the rain.” He hopped up off the couch and joined Aziraphale. “Here, let me help you with those.”

“Oh! Thank you.” Aziraphale dropped a few books in his outstretched arms. He buckled under their surprising weight, but soon regained his balance. 

“Mm,” Crowley grunted in acknowledgement, and began shelving the books Aziraphale had handed him. 

“And Crowley? Make sure you’re putting them _in the right place._ God knows how long it took me to find that first edition Hawthorne after you hid it.”

“For the last time, Angel, I have _no idea_ how it ended up on the roof! And you were able to miracle the water stains out. Mostly. So no harm, no foul.” He took the book he had just shelved off of the shelf and actually bothered to look at the title and author. 

Realizing that the correct place for the book was halfway across the shop, he groaned and began walking towards the shelf. As he grew closer, the radio faded into his hearing range. 

“...and we’re looking at a slight chance of rain in the afternoon, but hopefully the clouds will clear up in time for the Halloween festivities that many of us have planned for the night. The high today will be twelve degrees, and the low…”

Crowley tuned out the rest of the forecast. He shelved the book, his mind only half there. He had forgotten that today was Halloween. 

Being a demon, he had a certain predisposition to be fond of Halloween. He was, after all, a big spooky fan. Trickiness was in his nature, and, all in all, who didn’t appreciate a good prank? He’d been dimly aware that it was coming (it was quite hard to avoid the merchandising, with stores everywhere advertising spooky specials for the season) but it had slipped his mind until the broad voice of the radio announcer dragged it to the front of his brain. 

“Hey, Angel. Did you remember it was Halloween?” Crowley emerged from behind the bookshelf, finding Aziraphale shelving his last book. 

“Hmm? Oh. No, I don’t believe I did.” Aziraphale pushed the book down between two voluminous volumes and, upon hearing a thunk as the book settled into place, turned and tugged his lapels, satisfied. “Now, what was that about Halloween?”

“It’s today.” Crowley strode closer. “You know, Halloween. Supposed to be spooky.” He waggled his fingers, trying to impersonate some creepy creature one might find under a bed, or in some dark closet. “Goblins and witches and ghouls, oh my!”

“Oh my, indeed.” Aziraphale sat primly down on his chair, grabbing a half-filled mug of tea. He sipped, and Crowley watched as he grimaced. 

“Is it cold?” Crowley asked, eyebrows rising.

Aziraphale nodded and extended it to him. Crowley sighed and snapped, and soon steam was rising from the mug once more. 

Aziraphale grinned. “Thank you.”

Crowley pouted. “‘S nothing.” He plopped down on the couch he’d been sitting on previously, draping his long legs over one arm and letting his head dangle off the other. His sunglasses started slipping off his nose, so he righted his head and turned to Aziraphale. “We should do something. It’s Halloween. I feel like celebrating.”

“What’s there to celebrate?” Aziraphale took another sip from his mug, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief he’d procured from… somewhere.

Crowley shrugged. “Ahh… I mean… loads of stuff! Um. Mischief. Mayhem. Probably some other m words.”

“Sounds like a load of demonic activity, if you ask me,” Aziraphale said, sniffing. “Heaven always frowned upon celebrating Halloween, at any rate.”

Crowley frowned. “Well, they’re all a load of wankers anyway.”

Aziraphale looked insulted, and Crowley sighed. “Oh, come _on,_ Angel. It’s not all bad. There’s chocolate. Pumpkins. And… costumes?” He racked his brains for other ways he could get Aziraphale hooked on the holiday.

“Chocolate?” Aziraphale looked up. Crowley laughed when he saw Aziraphale’s face. His eyes were wide, and his mouth parted slightly. It was the face he made whenever his interest was piqued. 

“Mm. Yeah. _Loads_ of chocolate. Chocolate for days. _Months,_ even.” Crowley leapt off the couch. “Just think about it. You’ve been working hard with this new shipment of dusty, old, and disgustingly _boring_ books—”

" _—Crowley—”_

“—fine, the shipment of perfectly _divine,_ but still ancient and dusty books. Anyways. The point is, you deserve a break. _We_ deserve a break. It’ll be grand. Promise.” He knelt in front of Aziraphale, putting his hand over Aziraphale’s. It was still warm from handling the mug of tea, and slightly dusty too, from handling the books beforehand.

Aziraphale looked off to the side, and then back at Crowley. “Fine. I cannot believe I’m agreeing to this, but fine.”

Crowley hooted. “I knew you’d come ‘round.”

Crossing his arms, Aziraphale peered at Crowley, a quizzical look on his face. “So how do you propose we celebrate?”

“Oh.” Crowley’s face fell. “Um. With chocolate?”

Aziraphale sighed. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”

Crowley spread his arms, a gesture that said _well, what do you expect?_ “I just remembered it was today, Angel. Can’t blame me if I hadn’t come up with a plan in the heaping _five minutes_ I’ve had.”

Aziraphale waved his hand, dismissing Crowley’s statement while sipping his tea. “Of course, my dear. I didn’t mean to blame you. What do you usually do? For Halloween, I mean.”

Crowley thought. The truth was, he hadn’t _really_ celebrated Halloween properly in a while. He’d always regarded it as a holiday for children, mostly. The most he’d do was get a festive sleeve for his morning coffee from the corner cafe, and maybe _—maybe—_ scare a pedestrian or two by jumping out from a dark alley. 

It was one of the rare days he could get away with not wearing his sunglasses, too. It was refreshing, seeing the sun as it was, rather than a poor imitation through tinted plastic. It didn’t mean he would forgo the glasses completely, though; he’d grown used to them on his face through the years. They felt like a part of his character. But still, it was nice to have that option.

“Ah… you know. The usual stuff. I did all sorts, back in the day.” Crowley rolled his eyes back, recalling memories that had been buried under centuries and centuries of time. “I had loads of fun. You know me, I’m a big lover of all things spooky. Then it was called Samhain, I suppose, but”—he shrugged—“same principle, really.”

“So where does the pumpkin and chocolate come in?” Aziraphale wondered.

Crowley grimaced. “Well, that’s really more of a—ah _—modern_ development. They weren’t exactly handing out Mars bars two thousand years ago. It was really more about… dead people. And honoring the spirits. And consorting with demons.” He ticked off a finger for each tradition he mentioned.

He watched as Aziraphale’s face fell. Crowley could nearly see his interest waning, sliding off his face like butter in a hot pan.

“Samhain sounds like a mess, if you ask me. Perhaps we should refrain from celebrating, and just go the modern, human route.” 

“Nonono! Samhain isn’t all bad, see? Sometimes it’s fun to get into a little mischief. What d’you say?” Crowley peered over his sunglasses, hoping his meager argument would convince Aziraphale to join him.

Aziraphale sniffed, and Crowley’s heart fell. “I don’t know, Crowley. The modern way sounds much tamer. And safer. I don’t like the idea of consorting with the dead. Sounds _terrifying,_ if you ask me. And if not terrifying, quite annoying. Ghosts get unfortunately dull and cocksure once they’ve been dead for long enough.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” Crowley smirked. He couldn’t say he had much experience with the dead, but how bad could they be? It’s not like they could kill him (or even discorporate him). They were nothing more than spirits who had been aging far too long in their respective locations. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, affronted. “I _am_ speaking from experience! I once had to let a spirit borrow a body so he could yell at his wife, and I got no thank you in return! Though, I _do_ suppose it wasn’t _my_ body he was inhabiting. Tracy was quite a good sport about it.” He stopped talking when his eyes fell on Crowley’s face. “Ah. Well. Anyways. I still think we should do the modern way of things.”

Crowley scoffed. It wasn’t that he hated the modern way of things, it was just that it was so—

 _"_ Boring. That’s what the modern traditions are. Live it up a little. Scare someone. Talk to a demon.”

“Dear, I talk to _you_ every day.”

Crowley ignored him and continued talking. “Point is, no way am I doing the modern way of things.” His voice went high and thin with mockery when he said ‘the modern way of things.’

“Well, I will definitely _not_ participate in this so-called _Samhain.”_ The ‘Samhain’ in Aziraphale’s sentence was dripping with disdain.

Crowley sighed, slightly fed up. Most times he pleasured from Aziraphale’s fussiness, found it adorable even, but there were also times when it happened to be the most infuriating thing in the world. 

“Fine. Fine! Tell you what. How ‘bout we compromise?”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “What do you propose?”

“We do both.”

“...I suppose that makes sense,” Aziraphale said.

“Ah ah ah.” Crowley wagged a finger. “That’s not all. What would you say to a little… _friendly competition?”_

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “How do you mean?”

“It’s simple, really.” Crowley had been fighting the urge to smirk, but finally let the twisted smile overtake his face. “We”—he pointed at Aziraphale and himself—“each plan a Halloween celebration. You take the modern, I’ll do ancient. And then we both partake in those activities. At the end, we’ll see which tradition is _actually_ better. Spoiler alert! It’s mine.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Not so fast. The competition has barely begun.”

“So you agree to it?” Crowley felt his grin widen. 

Sighing, Aziraphale nodded. “I can’t believe I am, but yes.”

Crowley strode forward, offering his hand to Aziraphale. “Shake on it.”

Aziraphale extended his own arm, taking Crowley’s hand in his. “Fine.”

They shook firmly. 

“Well. May the best occult being win!” Crowley withdrew his hand with a flourish, turning dramatically on his heel. He couldn’t resist a quick miracle to make the lights flicker and a cool draught of air sweep through the bookshop as he exited. As the front door shut behind him, he barely caught Aziraphale’s indignant scoff and a mutter of “I’m _ethereal,_ not occult.”

He cackled once he was outside, turning the heads of a few passerbys. _This was going to be too easy._

  
  


* * *


	2. Some Learning This Way Comes

Crowley wasn’t usually the type of demon to make lists, but he thought one was in order for this instance.

He began drafting it in his head, on his way home from the bookshop. The way back was so second nature to him that he was able to devote most of his brainpower to thinking about his plans for the celebration he had gotten himself into planning. He tuned out the Queen playing over the Bentley’s sound system and instead focused on the memories he had of ye olde days of Samhain. 

Reminiscing wasn’t something he did regularly; he preferred to live life in the moment (though it didn’t stop him from reliving every single interaction he had with Aziraphale throughout history when he couldn't fall asleep). Still, there was a time and place for everything, and he needed  _ ideas. _

Samhain… well, that had been two thousand years ago, he supposed. It was one thing to recall what he had eaten a day ago, and a whole other ordeal when he had to do that over a little more than a few centuries. (Though, he considered, he couldn’t really remember what he had to eat a day ago, either.) 

For him, the memories of Samahin weren’t exactly distinct. He remembered certain emotions, certain experiences… the smells of woodsmoke and earth, the chatter of people, the flicker of flames. The flush in his cheeks, the rush every time a human fled before him. The complete and utter joy of trickery and disguise. 

Those were simpler times. No nuanced tempting, no technology to manipulate. Then, it was as easy as stealing a few cows. No one had to get in a fuss. No one had to get upset downstairs. It was before paperwork had been invented, anyhow, and Crowley was infinitely grateful for that fact. (In his opinion, the worst thing to come from Hell were the memos. One hundred and ten percent.)

So. All he had to do was channel that energy of unbridled mischief and magic into modern times. Simple, really. 

He sighed, haphazardly parking the Bentley in its usual curbside spot. Who was he kidding? It wasn’t going to be easy at all. Especially not when the person he had to work with, the person he had to win over, was  _ Aziraphale. _

Aziraphale was, to put it lightly,  _ difficult. _ It had taken Crowley  _ centuries _ to persuade him to actually agree to their arrangement, the angel so pent up about “doing the right thing.” The stick up his ass was so deep that Crowley sometimes wondered if it was really worth trying to banish the heavenly influence that had been imparted in him over the centuries. But he knew Azirapale would crack eventually, and life would be sunshine and daisies when it finally happened. After all, Aziraphale had proved that he actually  _ was _ able to disobey head office, despite strong evidence to the contrary. He had stopped bloody Armageddon, for somebody’s sake. Not to mention giving away the flaming sword, and consorting with Crowley himself, a known demon and quote-unquote flash bastard. 

The more Crowley thought about it, the more he realized that Aziraphale had actually done some pretty bad things, at least by angelic standards. For someone who was so adamant about obeying head office, he sure went against it quite often. He just had to have a good enough reason. Sure, they were often his own personal reasons, but still. It proved that Aziraphale could do bad things if he had a reason. So all Crowley had to do was give him a reason to like Samhain. But what reason would be good enough?

He pondered this as he went up to his apartment. Nothing he could think of about Samhain off the top of his head seemed like it would appeal to Aziraphale in the slightest, a revelation that could prove to be problematic. All he had to do was find a reason, and the best way he could do that was through thorough  _ research _ . 

Crowley didn’t usually have patience for books. Despite being a demon with imagination, he didn’t like being told what to imagine. He preferred to live out his  _ own _ daydreams, not the ones of some stuffy old fart who died a hundred years ago. But sometimes reading was necessary. Especially when it came to figuring out Aziraphale, an angel who practically lived in books. 

He approached the one bookshelf in his house and scanned the spines for any titles that could help him. Fortunately, his eyes landed on an extremely thick one labeled with ‘Traditions.’ He hoped it entailed the type of traditions he’d been looking for. 

He snaked his arm above the book so he could push it out, letting out a low ‘oomph’ when it finally fell into his arms in all its dust-filled glory. He stuck a finger in between the pages at the end, hoping a volume that large came equipped with an index. 

“Mm. Good,” he murmured to himself when he spied the letter headings with alphabetized entries beneath them in orderly lists. He flipped a few of the thin pages to find the S column, and traced his finger down. 

_ “Sabbath… Saint’s Day… Samhain!” _ He moved his finger slightly to the right, landing right under the pages that mentioned Samhain. With a flick of his wrist, he fluttered the pages of the book, causing the pages mentioned in the index to fly out and float around the room, awaiting his attention. 

He grabbed one lingering by his ear, plucking it with two fingers. 

_ “Samhain’s Malevolent Spirits. _ Mm. Not the stuff I’m looking for.” He let it go. He highly doubted Aziraphale would be enticed by malevolent spirits. (Which was a shame, really. Crowley would  _ never _ say no to some good ol’ dead havoc-wreakers.)

He snatched another from beside him.  _ “Traditions of Samhain?  _ Ehh. Maybe.” He scanned it, and, finding it promising, brought it back to the desk. He perched on the arm of his throne-like chair and began to read through the several practices listed.

“Bonfires.” That was doable, he supposed. Aziraphale  _ might _ be tetchy around the fire. But it was mostly cosy, right? It didn’t have to be a  _ big _ bonfire. Though that was kind of the point of a bonfire: that it was big. Crowley shrugged, and decided to put a pin in it.

“Sacrifices, especially of cattle.” Crowley bit his lip. That was also something Aziraphale might oppose. He  _ did _ preach to respect all creatures, but it wasn’t like he was a vegetarian. It would, however, be difficult to steal a whole cow, and Crowley was never good with animals in the first place. Sacrifices could also get very messy very quickly. Crowley had witnessed  _ several _ in his day, and was in no rush to go see more, let alone  _ do _ one.  _ Another pin it was. _

“Bobbing for apples.” This one he could see Aziraphale doing. Crowley had a familiarity with apples (he  _ was _ the serpent of Eden, after all). And Aziraphale was always a good sport about food. He was never one to turn down something edible, no matter how repulsive it looked or smelled. He just had to try everything. Of course, he might not get the point of actually bobbing for the apples. Crowley gave a low chuckle as he imagined Aziraphale staring down at a tub of apples, a confused expression on his face. Perhaps no bobbing for apples, then. He moved on to the next item on the list. At this rate, none of the traditions would be left for him to use.

“Summoning spirits.” Ehhh. This one was iffy. It honestly depended on the spirits, really. Perhaps if he summoned the ghost of, say, Shakespeare. Or Oscar Wilde. Or Beethoven. But how the heaven was he supposed to summon spirits, anyways? By ringing them up on some bloody ghost phone? He guessed he could  _ command _ them there with his so-called demonic presence; that might work. 

Ghosts always had made him uneasy; perhaps it was the competition he faced with them. Crowley himself always aimed to be an inconvenience, as it was slightly easier than being pure malice and villainy all the time. Ghosts could give him a run for his money, though, with all their floor-creakings and door-shuttings and other…  _ spiritual shenanigans.  _

He pulled the page closer to him, wondering if it said anything else about spirit summonings. It did not. 

“Blast.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “What use is this bloody thing, anyways?” The paper floated away as he rescinded his hold on it, a delicate butterfly of wood pulp. Or perhaps, to fit with the occasion, the ghost of a chopped-down tree. 

Crowley slid off his perch on the chair arm, falling with a soft thud into the seat. He inhaled, and finally faced the conclusion he’d been reluctant to make the entire time. The conclusion that there was no way in Heaven or Hell, and, most importantly, on Earth, that Aziraphale could ever stand for the mischief and tomfoolery that was Samhain. 

Crowley sank lower in his chair, despair slowly making its home in the pit of his stomach. With the truth finally blatantly obvious to him, his only thought was  _ what the hell do I do now? _ Because the truth was, it wasn’t  _ really _ about winning the competition (though that would be a perk). It was about making Aziraphale  _ happy. _ And he had virtually no idea (none!) about how to do that with the things that pleased him. The two were like oil and water, or a Venn diagram with no overlap. There was virtually nothing in common. 

He groaned and liquefied his body, sliding further off his chair. His arms caught on the chair and were lifted above the rest of him. Eventually, gravity took hold, and Crowley was left lying on the ground, legs twisted at awkward angles, half of him underneath his desk. The position wasn’t at all to induce ideas and to help him come up with solutions; it was merely the place he felt most comfortable to sulk in.

Crowley groaned once more, this time letting his voice travel through octaves before settling down to a diminuendo vocal fry. His entire plan was crumbling before his eyes. In retrospect, it was horrendously stupid of him to make the competition. He never had a chance to actually  _ win.  _ He should’ve realized it was doomed from the start, from Aziraphale’s adamant tone when talking about Samhain, to the natural iron backbone Aziraphale always had, always ready to make things work  _ for  _ him. 

All that was left to do was… give up. He scrunched up his eyes and dragged his hands down his face, pulling at his eye sockets and cheeks. It wasn’t worth upsetting Aziraphale. He had half a mind to go back to the bookshop, to curl up on the couch and just  _ forfeit. _ He wasn’t a fighter; he’d  _ never  _ been. He’d be miserable, of course, but Aziraphale—

Crowley shot up, forgetting he was under his desk. His head gave a resounding  _ thunk _ when it came in contact with the hard metal-edged wood. 

“Ow.” Crowley rubbed his head, nearly forgetting the reason he had sat up so quickly in the first place. It came to him as the pain diffused.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, reliving his disrupted eureka moment. Aziraphale wouldn’t want him to show up with  _ nothing. _ Aziraphale would be so incredibly disappointed if he showed up now, forfeiting the competition because of some stupid mental block. Even though Aziraphale was one of the stubbornest bastards he had ever had the pleasure of knowing, he knew he wouldn’t want him to just  _ give up. _ And he  _ didn’t _ want to disappoint Aziraphale.

Crowley stood up, rolling back his shoulders once he was fully upright. He shook out his body, partly to let go of previous worries, partly to hype himself up. 

_ It’s just a friendly competition. No stress. Just fun. Fun, and Aziraphale. That’s it. All it is. Simple. You know Aziraphale, and you can learn Samhain. You can make this work.  _

Crowley took a deep breath, and, confidence renewed, grabbed the page hovering by his ear. He had  _ a lot _ of planning to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometime this week there should be a little comic showing what Aziraphale was doing whilst Crowley was ~~suffering~~ learning.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping by! You can find us on tumblr [here](https://a-bastard-to-be-worth-knowing.tumblr.com) and [here](https://apocalypsenah.tumblr.com)!


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